Seeing Ghosts
by Story Please
Summary: Fred and George are so inseparable that most people say their names as some kind of a set. Fred&George. Twins, brothers, business partners. Then the War strikes and nothing is ever the same again. Just when George is finally coming to terms with all that has happened, can it be that Fred is back? Or is it just another loose end come back to haunt him?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I've been meaning to write this story for awhile, and I just haven't had the time. Not sure about how regular updates will be, but I just had to start it. Fred and George are two of my absolute favorite characters from the HP series, so I've been wanting to write a story with them in it. This story is kind of AU, not necessarily canon-compliant, but probably fits in there fairly well. I'm setting the rating as T but that might change because I think there might be some sexy bits at some point. Kind reviewers, please do let me know what you think!_

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**Chapter 1: Closing Time**

George Weasley practically had to slam the door shut on their last customer of the day as a number of other witches and wizards who had reached the door only moments too late were greeted by the sight of a giant purple CLOSED sign, complete with little animated doodles of Fred and George pulling faces at them.

"Ahhh, the weekend is finally here!" he sighed, the relief palpable in his voice.

"You do know that the weekend is our busiest time, right?" Fred replied with a grin as he seemed to materialize from the tall shelves piled to the ceiling with various products.

"That's not until tomorrow, though," George replied, feeling the same grin mirrored on his own face.

There was something about the easy symmetry of their faces that just _made sense_.

"And you know what they say," Fred said snarkily.

"Ain't no rest for the wicked!" they both chorused together, giving each other a high five.

A light tapping noise came from the glass behind them, and George turned with an annoyed look on his face, nearly ready to tell whoever it was off.

And then he froze.

"What's wrong?" Fred asked, twisting his head to the side so he could see who was standing at the glass, "Hey, is that who I think it is?"

Angelina Johnson stood on the other side of the glass, shivering in her robes as she tried to look in through the One Way Two Way glass, which went frosty and opaque when the shop was closed as a way to dissuade would-be burglars from window shopping.

"Oh, too bad," Fred said with a laugh, "She's just a bit too late, eh brother? Just because she was our Quidditch captain once upon a time doesn't mean we're going to make an exception for- hey wait, what are you doing?"

But George had already gone to the door and was unlocking it.

"It's as cold as a hag's untouched tit out there, George," Angelina cursed as she practically sprinted in through the door, "Oh, hi Fred."

"Hi Ang," Fred said with a bored expression on his face, but George knew better.

His brother was irritated.

_Bloody hell._

"Sorry, Fred, I forgot to tell you I had plans tonight," George said sheepishly.

Fred's eyes narrowed as he looked even more bored (and therefore pissed off) at this confession.

"Well, no matter!" Fred said, turning around as though he didn't care at all and waving back dismissively at them both, "I've got plenty of people to do and things to see, myself!"

George felt his chest constrict at this. He could practically _see_ how hurt his brother was feeling, but he looked at Angelina and he couldn't deny how looking at _her_ made him feel.

For once, just once, he didn't want to feel like part of a set. He wanted to be just George. Just for an evening. Or maybe until morning, if she let him stay the night.

"C'mon Angelina," he said pointedly, "We don't want to keep Freddy from _doing_ those important people."

As the door closed behind them, George thought he heard a tiny scoffing laugh, but he decided to pretend it was just his imagination. Fred was a big boy. He could handle himself.

They could make up later, after all. They always did. But a girl like Angelina only came around once in a lifetime.

And besides, he and Fred had been together before they were born. No matter what was to come, he knew that he and his brother would face it together.

Less than a year later, Fred would beyond his brother's reach forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Someone to Keep Me Warm Tonight**

Clara Summers had been in London for only three hours, but she was regretting her decision wholeheartedly.

"Go abroad on the off season!" her friends had told her, "The cost is so much more reasonable!"

"You might as well go on a vacation," her mother had told her with an aloof expression, "Bernard and I are going to Hawaii for Christmas, and three's a crowd. Might as well try and see if the men overseas are more accepting of fat girls. Maybe you should try Africa, they're used to looking at hippos over there."

Her mother had laughed as though this were a harmless joke, but Clara had been disgusted. Her father hadn't been dead a year before her mother had remarried a sleazy used car dealership owner who made a lot of money but was just as horrible as her mother. They deserved each other, she supposed.

But that meant that if she didn't make any other plans, the Christmas holiday would entail taking extra shifts at the movie theater she worked at from time to time when she needed some extra money while school was out and eating take-out with her roommate's cat.

The idea of having to watch everyone else have a merry Christmas while she swept up popcorn and sticky mystery fluid was more than she could bear.

She'd saved the money, and the price was right. She'd be safe and choose a country whose native language was mostly the same as her own. What did she have to lose?

'My goddamn body heat, apparently,' she thought darkly as she hugged her arms to her body to try and preserve some warmth. For someone like Clara, who lived for most of the year in a small college town in Northern California, the oppressive cold that clogged the streets in slushy snow and tore through her thin hoodie with each gust of cutting icy wind was almost too much.

She was alone in the big city, she'd nearly lost her luggage (thank goodness she'd opted to only take a carry-on bag), and the room at the bed and breakfast she'd paid for online mysteriously hadn't received her reservation. They'd refunded her money, but it didn't really solve the problem of where she'd be staying. Of course, she blamed herself. She only had access to the crappiest of dial-up and had been surprised that the place she'd vetted out had a website at all.

But it was the holidays and all of the affordable places in her travel guide were full.

She needed a drink, well, at least a place to keep warm for a bit while she tried to figure out her next move. She was a big girl, ("in more than _one_ way," a voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother's said in the back of her mind), and Clara knew that she'd find somewhere to stay.

But she was beginning to feel foolish for having come alone. About as foolish as she'd begun to feel about expecting that anyone would ever find her attractive at all.

And did it have to be so damn cold?!

Clara's mother was rail-thin, so she supposed that if she stood next to her mother she probably looked huge, but she was also not so massive that she needed two seats on the airplane. One had fit her just fine, thank you very much. But her dirty-blonde hair was prone to frizzing and her glasses didn't do much for her face. What curves she did have seemed to have been inverted from the norm on purpose so that nothing fit her properly off the rack. Her dull, brownish green eyes weren't exactly gorgeous like the sparkling blues and greens and deep chocolate browns that her girlfriends had all been blessed with. Looking into Clara's eyes was like looking into a swamp.

The kind with alligators.

She nearly slipped on a patch of frozen sidewalk and skidded sideways. When she finally looked up, she found herself on an unfamiliar street. The wind had picked up and her teeth were chattering almost cartoonishly loud. It was then, when she had nearly been unable to convince herself not to simply sink down to her knees and cry, that she saw the little pub across the way.

It was quaint and ancient-looking to the point that she almost thought that it might be closed down and merely kept up as a tourist attraction, had lights not flickered merrily from its paned glass windows. There weren't many others out on the street in the cold evening ('and neither would I,' she reminded herself harshly, 'had I been smart enough not to trust the damn world wide web just because I didn't want to pay for an international phone call!'), but most of them seemed to be avoiding or ignoring the place. Still, it drew her like a siren's song, and she cut across the silent street quickly, shuddering as the slushy snow leaked through the canvas material of her Converse sneakers and squelched horribly.

A sign next to the door said "Rooms available," in quaint antique handwriting that looked as though it had been lettered using a quill pen.

"Wow, they sure go out of their way to preserve the history of the city," Clara remarked, marveling at how medieval the entire scene appeared.

Inside, she could smell that dusty scent that told her the place was old and probably not perfectly cleaned, but it did add to the ambiance somehow. She tried to tell herself that she wasn't being a sentimental American, but it didn't really matter. She was a tourist. She could be as sentimental as she wanted. After all, this whole trip was on her dime.

"Um...hello?" she said, approaching the bar, which seemed to be empty.

There were only a few people sitting at the far tables, all of them wearing long dark cloaks. Clara felt envious. They looked so _warm_. Maybe if she was brave enough, she'd build up the courage to ask where they'd purchased them.

When she turned back, she nearly jumped back in surprise. Standing almost a hair's breadth away was a hunched over man with stringy hair.

"Well, who's this then?" he said, looking her up and down, "We don't see many of your lot around here."

"You mean Americans?" Clara asked, hoping that she hadn't stumbled across one of those soccer hooligan bars that she'd read about in her copy of Frommer's Guide to London.

The man grunted.

"Sommat like that," he said after an uncomfortable pause, "What'll you have then, Miss?"

"Um...I'm not sure," Clara said, "I just I need something hot to eat and maybe a beer to warm my belly."

"I think I have just the thing. You wait here and I'll go and fetch it," the man said with a flourish of his arm that made Clara blush involuntarily.

He turned and Clara suddenly realized that she hadn't paid him. Digging into the travel wallet around her waist (and feeling just a bit mortified when a tiny flash of her puffy pale belly became visible in the struggle), she pulled out some pound notes.

The man paused and turned a little to his right, eyeing her with a sidelong glance that could have been wary or simply just curious.

"Er...how much?" Clara asked sheepishly, "The cost for the meal, I mean. I'm terribly sorry, I just got here and my bed and breakfast gave out my room and I was just about to break down and cry like a baby because I'm here all alone and I just…"

She trailed off, realizing that it was probably a bad idea to tell a stranger that she was in a strange country all by herself.

"Don' worry, Miss," the man said with a crooked, snaggle-toothed smile, "We'll take care of yeh."

She seriously considered trying to make a run for it, but when she glanced back at the windows, it had somehow gone pitch black outside and she could hear the paned glass rattling as the wind outside beat cruelly against it.

Other than the weird people dressed in dark cloaks, the pub ('that's what they're called, not bars,' she reminded herself) was actually pretty cheery. A roaring fire in the corner made shadows dance merrily around the room and the walls were covered with various bits of memorabilia for various sports teams that she didn't recognize. Other than baseball, Clara found sports utterly uninteresting, which was just as well because she had far too much memorabilia of her favorite team as it was.

And it was _warm_. So deliciously, toasty-roasty warm that Clara considered asking the barman to let her sleep right there on the hard wooden stool rather than have to go back out into the horrible storm that seemed to be raging outside.

As though to illustrate just how unpleasant her eventual departure would be, the door slammed open and as the little bell rang, signalling the entrance of a new customer. Clara found herself hunching over and shoving her hands in the pocket of her hoodie as the cold wind seemed to single her out and cut through her like a knife.

"Close the door will ya!" called the irritable voice of the barman as he brought up a tray.

'Wow, that was fast,' Clara thought, looking at the food hungrily. She almost didn't care if it was boiled beets and peas, she'd eat it all just the same.

A plate of sausages and a little bowl of mashed potatoes was laid out in front of her. There were vegetables, but they were merely steamed carrots with honey glaze. Clara thought that this seemed strangely high class for such a rustic environment, but she forgot all about it after she'd taken her first bite.

"This is amazing!" she gushed loudly, noticing that the barman was preening quite obviously under her praise.

"Try the pumpkin ale, miss," the man said with a snaggly grin, "Tis made in house."

An elbow thunked onto the table to her left and nearly made her jump.

"Why Tom, have you found your soulmate over pub fare? Who knew that bangers and mash could bring two people together!" a somewhat mocking voice said and Clara felt herself blushing with embarrassment as she looked up at the newcomer.

The man was tall, but not overly so, somewhat stockily built, with flaming red hair and freckles. He wore a long cloak as well in a deep and royal shade of purple. He pulled it off with a graceful sweeping motion and draped it over one of the empty stools before sitting next to Clara. He was wearing a pair of jeans with a small, frayed tear in one of the knees and a sweater that looked as though it had been made for him. It fit him _quite_ well indeed, she noticed, feeling her face go hot a second time for a completely different reason altogether.

"What's the 'F' stand for?" she asked him, after washing down a bite of mashed potato with the sweet, tangy pumpkin ale.

"A four letter word," the man replied, turning to her with a twinkle of mischief in his eye, "Not repeatable in polite company, I'm afraid."

"I know all about _those_," Clara replied conspiratorily, grinning a bit rudely, "And I'm quite familiar with _using_ them frequently as well. After all, I _am_ American."

"Ah, then I shall thank the heavens that I'm not in polite company and divulge it to you," the man replied with a wink, sticking out his hand, "The name's Fred. And you are?"

"Clara," she replied, shaking his hand a little slowly. She could practically feel his strength of personality pressing against her even as he kept a respectable distance between them.

"And where might you be hailing from, Clara?" Fred asked, his eyes genuinely interested in her response.

"California," she said, giggling slightly when his eyes widened, "Not the part you're thinking of. But don't worry. Everyone does that. No, instead of girls in bikinis and surfers riding gnarly waves to school, we've got farmland and cows. And a little liberal arts college that someone decided would be a good idea to build in the middle of all that agriculture."

"Ah," Fred replied, looking somewhat disappointed, "But still, it's been awhile since I've seen a..well..since I've seen someone who isn't from around here."'

They began to talk, well, Clara talked and Fred listened to her, asking her questions whenever they hit a lull in their conversation. When Clara finally looked up again, Tom the barman had disappeared and the pub was full of people. Somehow she'd not noticed the noise in the room rising to a dull roar as everyone talked and laughed around her.

She turned back to Fred, and he sat there with an expectant look in his eyes as though he was waiting for her and her alone. It made her feel a bit funny, as though a moth were trapped in her chest, beating its powdery wings against her heart. He'd finished half a glass of something called Firewhiskey, and his cheeks were a little red with drink, but he wasn't sloshed and even though she noticed him giving her little hungry looks from time to time, he kept his hands to himself, only touching her once at the wrist in a consoling manner when she mentioned her father's sudden death.

"So, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what do _you_ do?" Clara asked, meeting his gaze until she felt a bit lightheaded.

"I'll have you know that I own a very lucrative business with my brother," Fred replied, picking up his glass and swirling it around before taking a sip, "Well, _one_ of my brothers, anyway. He's my twin, you see."

"Do you have more than one twin?" Clara asked, her head tilted in confusion.

"Oh no no no!" Fred laughed, "My parents would have up and spontaneously combusted years ago if that were the case. I come from a large family, though. I've got six brothers and one sister."

"Oh wow, lucky her," Clara replied, "I'm sure no one messed with _her_ in school."

"Yeah," Fred replied, "Because she's right scary when she's mad. I wouldn't mess with Ginny when she's in a rotten mood, and that's saying something because messing with people is my natural talent, especially when George…"

He trailed off and his eyes narrowed as he thought about his brother leaving him to brave the evening alone without any warning.

"Enough about that old stick in the mud, though!" Fred said with a wave, "I know this sounds sudden of me, and I promise that I'm not some sort of axe murderer or anything-"

"You _do_ know that some sort of axe murderer would probably say exactly what you're saying right now," Clara replied with a laugh.

"With this face? Never!" Fred replied, laughing along with her, "Anyway, what I was saying was...how about we get a room and continue our little chat in a place where we don't have to shout at each other to hear?"

Clara immediately felt a swoop of anticipation in her belly. She wasn't properly drunk, maybe just a bit buzzed after the one drink. And Fred was really sweet and genial. The barman seemed to know the red-haired man as well, which would probably make getting away with being an axe murderer fairly different. Plus, unless he'd figured out some way to hide an axe down his jeans, she doubted that he even _had_ an axe.

Still, a not so quiet part of her brain reminded her exactly what was likely to happen if she went into a secluded area with a stranger that she'd just met.

And a somewhat louder part of her brain reminded her exactly how much she wanted to do just that.

'But maybe there aren't any rooms available anyway so it'll be a moot point,' Clara told herself, 'What the hell, you only live once!'

"Sure, why not?" Clara replied, finally.

"Wait right here," Fred said with a grin, "I'll be back in two shakes of a hippogriff's tail."

Clara snorted. What an odd turn of phrase. But then again, she _was_ in a different country. And he did seem to want to impress her.

Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she really _was_ more attractive in another country than her own. But then she waved the thought away and rolled her eyes.

'Just because a clock is right twice a day doesn't mean it's working properly,' she thought to herself, her belly churning with nervousness now that Fred had been gone for quite some time.

Maybe he'd told her he'd come back but left anyway. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she'd experienced that particular tactic. Still, he'd left his cloak draped over the stool to his left so probably not. Maybe he'd found someone else, someone prettier to talk to. Maybe…

"I got the key!" Fred said, bounding around a couple of tall, slender women with very curly hair wearing flowing velvet robes, "Clara..what's wrong? Are you ok?"

She nodded and tried to change the subject

"Wow, they're so pretty, they look like they're coming from a Renn Faire, don't you think?" Clara said with longing as she looked over at them.

Fred shrugged.

"I'm sure that someone is of that opinion," he said, "But I'd really like to spend more quality time with you, if you're willing and able."

"I think...I think I can accommodate that," Clara said with a smile she hoped looked coy and not horribly nervous.

"Well, you may not know this about me," Fred said, drawing his arm around her and bringing his lips close to her ear as he grabbed her carry-on bag with his other hand, "But I _always_ aim to please."

They climbed the stairs slowly and Clara found her heart pounding as her breath came in shallow puffs, though it had nothing to do with their journey and everything to do with what she was now certain they'd be doing once they reached their destination.

"I suppose that's probably a given, since you own your own business," Clara replied, trying to sound more sure of herself than she really was, "And as long as you're offering samples, who am I to refuse?"

"Satisfaction is guaranteed," Fred said, arching his eyebrow as he grinned a deliciously wicked grin that was just for her benefit.

He unlocked the door with an antique key and they entered the little room, which was clean and simple.

It was perfect.

She felt the twisting sensation in her belly grow into something hot, like a flower blooming in the summer sun, as he closed the door behind him and closed the distance between them. Inches away now, he brought his face closer and closer to hers until his breath was hot upon her flushed lips and she could see that she was not the only one whose breathing had become labored with lust.

"Or my money back?" she managed to whisper, as her eyes locked with his and she couldn't help but go half-lidded as her chest did somersaults.

"Oh no," Fred replied softly, "When I _say_ satisfaction is guaranteed, I _mean_ that satisfaction is _guaranteed_."

And then his lips were pressing against hers and she felt her body light up like a thousand candles in the darkness as she pressed back and felt the heat rise between them, banishing every bit of remaining cold that lingered in her soggy feet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Sparks**

Clara had never been so happy to be so exhausted in all her life. As she lay in the pleasurable afterglow after having engaged in a variety of shenanigans that she never, in a million years, would ever consider asking for a refund for, (had such a thing even been possible), she was glad that she'd decided to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that had been telling her that this would be a bad idea.

That voice had no idea what it was talking about.

"_God_, how did you learn how to do all of that? And your _endurance_…I'm not even sure the guys back in the States could even hope to compete. You've utterly ruined me now," she said, tracing a circle on Fred's bare shoulder as he brought the fingers on her other hand to his lips, kissing them tenderly in a way that made her feel terribly bashful.

"I guess I'll just have to marry you, then," he said with a chuckle.

Clara went scarlet and she laughed nervously in reply, hoping that he didn't notice how his easy words had affected her.

"In any case, exactly how did you...I mean..._five_ times is….unusual for me, to say the least," she said, changing the subject.

"What if I told you it was _magic_?" he said, grinning mysteriously.

"I don't care if it's the sign of the coming apocalypse," Clara replied with a sleepy grin, "Because if I had to choose a way to die, having the pleasure of your company sure would soften the blow."

"Oh, Clara," Fred said softly in a way that made her heart lurch, brushing a bit of her frizzy hair back from her face.

Clara thought that the way that he said her name must have been the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

"Don't talk like that," he continued, "There'll be no dying allowed on _my_ watch. After all, I couldn't do _this_ again. And again. And _again_."

He kissed her firmly, trailing his lips down her neck until he reached the pink imprint left by her bra strap that was still visible on her shoulder.

Her heart throbbed as she looked at him and she felt utterly stupid for feeling like this after only having known this smiling freckled man for less than even a full day. But there was no denying it. After so long with little more than a couple of lackluster one night stands and casual dates to keep her from simply exploding from sexual frustration, spending time with someone who not only seemed to like her but also found her physically appealing (and vice versa, which was even _more_ rare) was utterly intoxifying. She tried to stop herself when she noticed that her train of thought was snowballing out of control. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, that laugh that came easy to him along with his wickedly sexy smile, or perhaps it had to do with the soft baritone of his voice and what to her was a distinctive accent. Whatever it was, it was really doing something to her.

Fuck.

It had been less than a day and she was already in love with the poor guy.

She knew that the _real_ poor one was herself, though. E_veryone_ knew that men didn't fall in love after one night stands. And besides, she would be leaving in five days.

"Oh god," she groaned softly as he met her eyes and gave her a concerned look, "I'm sorry, I'm an idiot."

"What's wrong?" he asked, kissing the back of her hand until she shivered at his touch.

She shook her head, though, unwilling to voice her thoughts, and he simply rested his chin on her thigh and looked at her with a thoughtful expression as though appreciating the shape of her body.

'Well, that makes one of us,' she thought bitterly to herself.

A moment later, he turned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. She watched him pull on a pair of scarlet boxer shorts and amble towards the small bathroom.

"I'll be right back, luv," he said, and she couldn't help but watch the easy, relaxed manner that he walked and the stardust pattern of freckles that ran down his back with a sense of deepest longing.

"I suppose I shouldn't expect you to stay...now that you're done with me," she said softly enough so that he wouldn't hear her, looking at the wall.

He had _quite_ an amazing backside, she had to admit and she tried to steel herself against the certain disappointment that was to come. It would be sad to see him go, but Clara knew that she didn't have the best of luck on a good day, and it had already been quite horrible until she'd stepped foot into the pub, so she really shouldn't expect her short reprieve to continue.

"Maybe I'm dreaming," Clara muttered to herself as Fred disappeared from sight, but when she pinched herself it hurt enough to bring tears to her eyes.

"Galleon for your thoughts?" Fred asked, and Clara jumped.

She hadn't heard him come back.

"Uh, I don't know what that is, but I'll assume that it's like a penny," Clara said with an attempt at a casual tone, trying to will herself to be strong, not to care that he was probably about to make an excuse so he'd never have to see her again.

"Clara?" Fred said, his eyes serious, and Clara braced herself.

'Here it comes. Just don't cry, Clara, you'll look foolish and crazy and it never makes anything better,' she thought bitterly.

Still, she felt the hot prickling sensation of unshed tears springing up behind her eyes.

"I was wondering," he continued, his cheeks going a bit red as he sat at the foot of the bed, "If...if it would be all right for me to stay."

Clara was silent, looking at him as though trying to decide if he was joking.

"I mean, if you don't want me to, I can go…" he said with a sheepish grin, reaching for his clothing, which had been haphazardly strewn on the floor.

"REALLY?!" Clara practically shouted, making him jump, "I mean, of course you can. It would be cruel to turn you out in the cold."

For a moment, he looked stunned and then his face broke out in a huge grin.

"I was worried once you had your way with me that you'd want to be alone. You know, Americans and their need for space," he said, slipping under the sheets next to her and looking at her sideways.

"Don't worry," Clara replied, "If it's anything I really don't need right now, it's to be alone. I guess I really didn't think about how scary it is to be in a foreign country all by myself."

Fred got a look on his face that told her he was scheming about something.

"Well, I _do_ have to man the shop tomorrow," he said thoughtfully, "But I should be able to sneak away a bit early if I give George the ol' stomach upset story."

"Oh, you don't have to do that on account of me," Clara said, blushing horribly.

"Oh but I don't _have_ to do it. I _want_ to do it!" Fred replied with a wink, "And no one keeps ol' Fred from doing what he wants to do."

She laughed at this despite herself.

"You'd better be careful," she said playfully, "Or maybe I really will take up your offer to marry you."

Fred shrugged.

"My mum and dad basically knew they'd found the right one on their first date," he said, as though such things were commonplace, "It sounds like something that a hopeless romantic might believe, but I always thought that maybe I might be the same."

"That's really sweet," Clara replied, "And they're still happy? Together, I mean?"

"That's the thing," Fred replied, "They really, really are. I think that if you're really meant to be together, you'll just...know. You know?"

"I think I'm starting to," Clara said softly, pressing her hand against his chest and feeling the soothing sound of his heartbeat under her palm.

He pulled her to him gently and she basked in the warmth of his body pressed against hers until she felt boneless with relaxation.

Clara's eyes were drooping dangerously with sleep, and so she was fairly certain that it was just her mind playing tricks on her when Fred seemed to exhale while saying something under his breath and the candles that had lit the room extinguished at once.

Everyone knew that magic wasn't real, after all.

There was a point, where Clara stirred and opened her eyes, though she was sure she was still dreaming. She saw the outline of Fred kneeling by the window, looking intently at something that glowed brightly and moved as though alive.

It was a fox, made of a bluish-white light, its vulpine face almost eerily human in how it grinned in a semblance of Fred's smile.

"Come to the Burrow immediately," the fox said in a voice that was like Fred's, only a bit deeper and slightly rougher, "There's been another attack. Mum wants you to come as soon as possible."

It was strange, for a dream. For one thing, Clara felt cold as she squinted towards the spectacle before her, and it was only when she found herself landing on the freezing floor with a small cry and a much larger thump that she realized that maybe it wasn't a dream. When she looked up again, though, the fox was gone.

Fred turned abruptly to face her with wide, surprised eyes and she saw that he had something in his hand, but it was too dark to see rightly what it was. For a moment, her own eyes went wide as she thought it might be a knife, but he was at her side in a moment, gathering her in his arms as though she weighed nothing (which was quite far from the truth indeed), and placed her back onto the bed with a kiss to her forehead.

"You should sleep, love," he said, softly, "I won't be long."

And with that, he had whispered some words that she didn't understand, but her head suddenly felt quite fuzzy and she felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into dreamless sleep. As she fell from consciousness, though, she thought she heard a loud cracking noise like a whip, but then all was silent and she fell willingly into oblivion.

When she woke up the next morning, the room was empty with no trace that she'd shared her bed at all. The only thing that seemed to point to the fact that it hadn't been a dream were Clara's aching thighs and a toilet whose seat had been left up.

She tried to go about her day, and even asked Tom, the barman, who gave her a funny look when she asked him if Fred was real, but said that he would be happy to let her know if the man returned to his pub. To her surprise, she found that her room had been paid up through the end of the week and her breakfast would be included as part of the price paid. Somehow, this gave her hope that he hadn't just run off, never to see her again.

She remembered that kiss to her forehead, and how he'd told her of his own parents and his thoughts on how, sometimes, _you just know. _ She couldn't believe that he would simply leave her after the best night in her entire life. It was too cruel to imagine.

Little did she know that she would never see Fred again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Souvenirs**

The week went by in a blur for Clara. She was able to check off most of the things she'd put on her itinerary, but the entire time she felt a little subdued in her enjoyment of the sights and historical exhibits she visited.

Each night she would return to the pub ("The Leaky Cauldron" read the sign on the front- a sign she hadn't seen that freezing night) and ask Tom if there were any messages for her.

There never were.

She hated sounding like a lovesick idiot, but her time was running out. She thought that perhaps he might give her his mailing address. Or, if she could get that giant hunk of junk computer to get back online, maybe she could send him an email if he even had one.

But a voice in the back of her head- the bitter one that sounded so much like her mother's, told her she was being utterly stupid.

Still, she exchanged contact information with Tom and promised to send him a postcard from the States when he mentioned that he'd never heard of this California place and refused to believe that they never had snow.

There was something about the man that reminded Clara of her father, even though they looked and sounded absolutely different. And in the absence of Fred, Clara found herself confiding in the hunched-over proprietor.

She felt somewhat sad when she realized that he wasn't going to appear out of thin air to wish her farewell like some kind of chick flick, but she had begun to think of that first night as one of those pleasant memories that she would look back on fondly.

It wasn't until Clara was three weeks back into second semester of her final year that she found out that somehow, though she took her birth control pill religiously, she had fallen pregnant.

There was no other man she could pull out of the woodwork to attribute her condition to, unless she honestly wanted to go for another virgin birth bid.

But she was no virgin.

And there was only one person it could be.

The worst part about the entire thing was that she was torn about what to do. It seemed like a cut-and-dried scenario- she knew she should terminate and cry and bleed under a blanket at having the crappiest luck ever.

After all, she was almost done with college, and she knew as well as anyone that no one would hire a pregnant college grad, much less a single mother.

But then she would think back to the tiny crinkle on either side of Fred's eyes and the way he'd said "Sometimes you just _know_."

"I'm being an idiot," she muttered to herself, sitting in the student health center waiting room with her eyes glued to the floor.

Logically, she knew that no one was looking at her, but she could feel people staring. It was almost like they _knew_.

She knew what she needed to do.

* * *

"You're _what_?!" Clara's mother screeched loudly, "Don't expect me to take care of your bastards, you fat _whore_!"

Normally, the woman was far less overtly abusive, but after a couple glasses of wine, her tongue loosened considerably.

"Come now, Jenny," Clara's stepfather said, twisting his mustache nervously, "There's no need to be abusive."

"Still," the older woman glared contemptuously at her daughter, "She could have decided to choose a less stressful time to spring this atrocious news on us. After all, we haven't told her our news, have we?"

"News?" Clara asked nervously.

"Why yes," Clara's mother said with a drunken hiccup, "We're moving. Far, far away, where I won't have to see your disappointing fat face. And that means that after this last semester, you're on your own. No more money from the first national bank of Mommy."

"I'm planning on grad-" Clara started.

"Oh _are_ you? With a baby on the way? You must be dumber than you look. A baby is hard work and requires a lot of sacrifice, and that's if you have support, which you obviously don't from the lack of a man at your side. By the looks of it, it's probably a litter," her mother replied with a dismissive wave, "Just don't expect any help from us."

"Sorry, Clara," her stepfather said, but his eyes glinted greedily, obviously glad that their socially pressured financial obligation was almost at an end.

Clara left early and cried into her pillow until she fell asleep.

* * *

In the end, it was not her blood relatives but her friends who became her support network. When she found out that she was carrying twins, she cried again, thinking of her mother's cruel yet prophetic words, but her friend Shelly was holding her hand the whole time. She lived in a large Victorian house that had been segmented into multiple rental rooms, and each of her friends made her feel better about her condition. The woman who lived in the attic, Ronnie, worked for the local health clinic and helped walk Clara through all of the various social assistance paperwork to ensure that she could get prenatal care and afford food.

When her water broke, her friend Chris drove her to the ER and when everyone assumed that he was the father, neither of them corrected the staff. Two boys were born after an agonizing twenty hours of labor, their eyes open and curious in this new, strange world. The staff had to prick their feet to make them cry.

Looking at her children, Clara knew she'd made the right decision. Even though she was filled with the deep fear that nothing she could ever do would be enough, she also had to admit that she felt like she was home.

Under "father," Clara simply wrote "Fred." She had never learned what his last name was. But she knew what she would name her children without a second thought. She named the twin that was born first after her father, Ryan, in honor of the man who had loved her as much as her mother apparently didn't. The second son she named for Fred, giving him the longer spelling of Frederick, as she doubted that _Fred_ was her mystery man's full name.

She tried to send letters to Tom at _The Leaky Cauldron_, but after the third one, she received a piece of folded yellowed stationary on her front doorstep that merely said, "_Do not contact me again_" with no signature.

She took it as a sign to close the door on the past and move forward with her life.

* * *

Strange things always seemed to happen around the Summers twins. Inseparable from birth, the two were always into something or other. More than once, Clara found her toddler sons on the top of the high cabinet in the living room of the house she rented with her friends. Things would go missing from locked rooms and appear in their crib days later. And as they grew, they developed their own language, looking at each other almost as though reading each other's minds. They had their mother's eyes, but their hair was as red as blood, their faces freckled in the California sun. Clara was able to find work with the college as a librarian after graduation and the reasonably priced on-campus nursery in the family student housing area was a godsend. She was able to save up and take advantage of the faculty housing, eventually securing a two bedroom apartment next to campus.

Her sons grew up happy and healthy, though Clara could only provide them with modest means. But they were never hungry and they were never poor. In school, they went by Rick and Ryan, their names spoken by their peers as though they referred to only one person. They got up to all sorts of mischief, but no one could ever catch them at it, somehow. Everyone knew it was them, though, much to the eternal chagrin of the teachers, who tried to keep the two separated to no avail.

It was a beautiful summer morning, and she'd just finished grinding the beans for her morning coffee, when Clara heard a loud tapping on the windows and the sound of wings beating against glass. The boys were watching cartoons, wrapped in blankets and hunched over the coffee table with bowls of sugary marshmallow cereal. Clara had been eternally grateful that they seemed to take after their father's more svelte figure. Both were skinny as rails even though they ate like their legs were hollow.

She pulled back the curtain and was utterly flabbergasted to see two speckled owls beating against the kitchen window.

"Whatever could the matter be?" she muttered to herself, opening the window.

She'd never seen an owl so close-up before. She'd expected her actions to scare them away, but they seemed to be encouraged by the opened window. Both landed on the sil and extended a leg.

Clara stifled a chuckle because they almost looked like the owl version of showgirls doing the can-can with their legs stuck out at the same time.

_Something was attached to their legs._

"You want me to take those off of your poor legs?" Clara asked the owls, feeling stupid when they just looked back at her as though to say _you do know that owls can't talk, right lady?_

She untied the string and pulled the small wrapped bundle from the first owl's foot and then went to the second owl's foot and did the same. Both seemed to look at her expectantly and she realized that they were waiting for something.

"What exactly do owls eat?" she asked, more to herself than anything.

The owls looked at each other as though to say, _oh good lord, the things we have to put up with._

"Erm...do you eat bacon?" Clara asked, holding a piece timidly in a pair of tongs.

The owls both ruffled their feathers and bobbed their heads, but since Clara did not speak Owl, she had no way of knowing what this meant.

She extended the bacon to one of the owls and it pecked dubiously it for a moment, its eyes widening as it speared and gulped it down greedily, hooting with satisfaction.

"Ok, ok, I'll get one for your friend," Clara said, spearing another with her tongs and extending it to the second owl.

The second owl simply grabbed and gulped it down even more quickly than the first, its eyes going half-lidded in an owl-approximation of a satisfied smile before it hooted softly and they took off together.

"Well, that was strange," Clara said, unwrapping the small packages, finding a small brass knob, the kind that might attach to a cabinet, in each, along with a smart linen envelope with a very official looking wax seal on the back.

She turned them over and her eyes widened

Each was addressed to one of her sons.

"Hogwarts School….of _Witchcraft and Wizardry_?" she gasped, looking at the return address as she sat down far too hard on the wooden dining room chair.

And suddenly, everything came back to her in a rush of memory- the lights dimming, the glowing fox that spoke with a human voice...and she _knew_.

Breaking the seals on each letter, she pulled out the stationary within and began to read.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Doorknob to Another World**

Clara read the letters addressed to her sons, her eyes widening until she felt them begin to sting from having forgotten to blink. Behind each letter was an additional sheet of stationery with an explanatory letter for parents.

"_Muggle_," Clara read aloud, "Is that what they call us? It sounds like some kind of Pokemon."

According to the letter, Hogwarts had a registry of names that magically appeared on the registry invitation list upon the 11th year of a witch or wizard's life based on eligible blood ties or those with magical abilities within a reasonable vicinity. It was true, the letter explained, that there were very few children from other countries who were sent these letters, but this was largely due to the fact that the English Wizarding community was very close-knit.

"But exactly how am I supposed to get to…._Scotland_?" Clara said, squinting as she looked at the scrawled return address on the envelope.

As though answering her question, she read the next line, which held the following words.

_To attend your parent-professor conference, simply take the knob and press it against any solid wall. When you hear a knock, turn the handle and step inside. Your child or children may attend as well, but please do not bring familiars or other animals as it interferes with the spells._

_"_Familiars? Spells?" she said skeptically, "What else do they expect me to do, ride a broomstick?"

She stared at the door knob dubiously. For a moment, she doubted and her conviction wavered. It _had_ to be a joke. But then again, she'd seen her sons do improbable things, and in her heart of hearts she knew it wasn't a laughing matter at all.

"Boys!" she called, making her way into the front room where her sons lazed in front of their favorite summer morning programs.

"Yeah, mom?" Ryan asked, turning toward his mother while Rick just groaned and grumbled about missing perfectly good commercials.

"Now Rick, don't be disrespectful," Clara said, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV.

"But _I'm_ Ryan!" Rick said, his face deadpan.

"Nice try, Rick," Clara replied with a knowing look, "But I'm sure your brother doesn't appreciate your attempts to frame him for being rude."

She'd never had trouble telling them apart no matter what they did to try and trick her. They acted like this irritated them to no end, but she knew better.

Ryan stuck his tongue out at his brother, who mirrored the expression and Clara was struck for a moment at how much they resembled their father.

_He said he was a twin too._

Maybe this school could help her find Fred or connect with his family at the very least. The letter _had_ said that they were a _tight-knit_ community. For the millionth time, she wished she knew Fred's last name. It wasn't exactly like it was an uncommon first name.

"I need you both to get dressed," she said, trying to keep her tone positive.

"Mom? What's that in your hand?" Ryan asked, pointing at the envelopes she still held clasped tightly in her fist.

"They came through the kitchen window, actually...by owl," she said truthfully.

"What? No _way_!" Rick jumped up from the couch and zoomed past her, sticking his head through the doorway to the kitchen and groaned with disappointment to find it bereft of owls.

"Well if you used that much energy to keep your room clean, I wouldn't have to get on your case nearly as often," Clara replied with a smirk.

"Is this some kind of prank?" Rick said sulkily as he plodded back to the couch and flopped down with his arms crossed, "Because it's really not funny."

"Well, maybe now you will understand how it feels next time you get some bright idea about pranking Mr. Greenwood again," Ryan said, sticking out his tongue.

"You liked the idea when I told you about it," Rick accused back, sticking out his tongue to emphasize his point.

"Ahem! You are aware that as your mother, I can punish you for incriminating yourselves, right?" Clara said, putting her hand on her hip and raising an eyebrow.

The two boys sat up rigidly as they realized what they'd done.

"But I suppose I could conveniently forget that I heard anything at all if you are dressed and in the kitchen in less than five minutes starting...NOW!"

The two jumped up and ran down the hall to their room so quickly that they very nearly left cartoonish puffs of smoke behind.

Clara smiled and looked back down at the letters, skimming through the information again. She had already put one of the doorknobs in her purse, but the other was tucked in her pocket. There was no time or date listed.

The twins stampeded into the kitchen, both in jeans and t-shirts. Clara sighed as she slid her purse onto her shoulder.

It would have to do.

"Where are we going?" Rick asked excitedly as his brother yawned and stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal his bellybutton.

They were growing up so quickly. Already she could tell that she'd need to take them shopping for new clothing within a month or so.

How could such tiny little babies have grown so much already. How could her sons be so tall? It seemed almost like a kind of magic in and of itself, though she knew that it was not.

"Well," she said, pulling the brass knob from her pocket, "To be honest, I'm not quite sure, but I want you two to trust me. Can you do that?"

They nodded in unison.

Clara approached the kitchen wall slowly with the knob held out in her hand as though trying to open an invisible door. She reached the wall, which was covered in a wallpaper that was probably all the rage in the 1970's but had yellowed slightly and faded with age, and pressed the knob against the flat surface.

At first, nothing happened. But then, she felt a tug against her hand, as though she were being pulled by a giant magnet. With a metallic hum, the knob pulled free from her hand and stuck fast against the wall as everyone stared with wide eyes.

A deep resounding noise, like the sound of ice cracking, shot through the room and Clara jumped back with a yelp.

A thin rectangular crack of light shone from the wall in the perfect shape of a door, and before they could say a word, a deep knock sounded on the other side.

"What was _that_?" Ryan said in a tiny voice.

"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out!" Rick said, his voice trembling with excitement.

"Well, it _is_ rude not to answer the door," Clara said, hoping that her voice didn't waver.

"I'm gonna _doooo_ it!" Rick called out in a singsong tone.

Clara felt Ryan slip his hand into hers silently and as an afterthought she thrust out her other hand, grabbing Rick by the wrist. He turned back to look at her with a confident smirk and she tried to smile back.

"Just so we don't get separated, ok?" she said softly.

Rick's other hand had already grasped the knob and was twisting it open. He stepped back as the wall opened just like a door and they all walked through hurriedly, feeling a strange tingling sensation wash over them that made each of them squint and sneeze as though they'd looked directly at the sun.

When Clara recovered and got a proper look around, she realized that they were standing in what appeared to be a rather medieval looking office, the muted lighting flickering cheerily as a fire roared in the nearby fireplace. To her left, she saw a massive wall of paintings, the dancing light giving her the impression that the people therein were sleeping.

A older woman with rounded glasses and a pointed green velvet hat sat behind an impressive oak desk before them.

"Please, sit down," she said kindly, gesturing to three chairs that had not been there mere moments ago.

"Awesome!" Rick exclaimed excitedly, "How did you do that?"

"_Frederick Summers_!" Clara said sharply, "It's rude to address people before being formally introduced!"

The woman behind the desk chuckled, her pinched face relaxing into a small smile.

"That's quite all right, Ms. Summers," she said primly, "I shall start the introductions, then. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. I am the headmistress at this school."

"This is a _school_?" Ryan asked, his eyes wide as he studied the suit of armor by the wall.

"Indeed, Mr. Summers," the Headmistress replied, "And has your mother explained to you exactly _what_ sort of school this is?"

"No, I-" Clara stopped and blushed with embarrassment, "To be honest, I sorta doubted that it was, well, real."

McGonagall looked at Clara over her spectacles and gestured to indicate the room around them.

"Am I to assume by your expression that _this_ lives up to your expectations of reality?" she asked with the tiniest of smirks.

"Oh, I doubt I could have hallucinated any of this by myself," Clara replied.

"Excuse me," Ryan said, his hazel eyes going brown with confusion, "Miss Headmistress?"

"Professor or Headmistress is fine," McGonagall replied, smiling kindly.

"Then...Headmistress...can you please tell me more? This is all so new to me...and..." Ryan took a step back and toed at the carpet.

"Of course," the Headmistress replied, standing and spreading her hands wide, "I would like to welcome you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

"Hear, hear!" said an amused voice, and Clara turned to see an elderly wizard with a long white beard beaming at her from one of the portraits, his blue eyes twinkling as he clapped loudly.

"_Albus_!" The Headmistress chided, "Don't you think they're already overwhelmed by all of this?"

But Clara didn't hear what the painting replied because she'd fallen to the floor in a dead faint.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: New Familiar Faces**

"My dear, you seem to have had quite a shock!" a kindly voice said as Clara opened her eyes. She was lying on a long chaise lounge that she was fairly certain had not been in the room before she'd fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

_Oh right. Magic. _

Both Rick and Ryan were sitting across from her with worried expressions on their faces.

Clara forced herself to smile and blushed with embarrassment at having been so damn weak. She _never_ fainted. This had to be the first time that she could remember having done so, and of _course_ with her luck it was in front of the Headmistress of an entire school. Why, again, had she thought she could handle this?

"Please excuse Albus," the Headmistress said tersely, "His portrait has a penchant for..._theatrics_."

"I'm sorry," Clara said, cringing a little as everyone gave her sympathetic looks, "I shouldn't worry you like this. _I'm_ the parent here. I shouldn't be fainting over something as minor as...er...talking paintings."

"Well, truth be told, muggles do tend to experience some dizziness and fatigue when they use Doorkeys," McGonagall said primly.

Rick snorted and Ryan glared at his brother.

"What?" Rick said with a grin, "_She_ said 'dorky'!"

"Door. Key. Mr. Summers," McGonagall said, staring over her glasses with a look that could freeze lava.

"Yes, ma'am," Rick replied, shrinking back a bit in his seat.

Clara found herself smiling. It was a rare instructor that could do such a thing to her most mischievous son. Perhaps this Hogwarts place _was_ the right place for her sons to attend after all.

"Headmistress," she said, after a pause, "May I ask you a question?"

"I believe you already have," the Headmistress replied with a kindly smile, "But you may, of course, ask another."

"Well, it's just…" Clara said, feeling that familiar twist of uncertainty in her belly, "I am looking...for...someone. His name is Fred. Red hair, very witty and he said...he said he owned his own business with his brother."

McGonagall gave Clara a very serious and measured look and Clara felt as though she had said something very wrong or inappropriate.

"I mean, it seems like maybe he went to this school too...er...but don't worry if you can't.."

"Am I to believe that you do not know exactly what happened here a little over twelve years ago?" The Headmistress had crossed her arms and was practically looming over Clara, her mouth a thin line, "If you are feeling better, then please follow me. There is something I would like you to see."

Clara stood and tried to wave away Ryan's hand though she felt a small swell of momentary dizziness as she got to her feet.

"I'm ok, guys. Really," she said, a part of her still somewhat touched when her sons kept close to her on either side, looking like very short bodyguards. Even Rick's normally unflappable demeanor seemed affected by his mother's fragility.

They were still such little kids. But they were still growing, and soon, they wouldn't need her anymore and she'd have to figure out what was next.

Clara pointedly tried not to dwell on this thought.

They followed the woman and her bobbing pointed hat down a spiral staircase and out into a large stone hall.

"This way," she called over her shoulder, "Be careful not to get separated. Hogwarts has a way of being quite large and difficult to navigate without a proper guide."

They went down another staircase, and Clara could have sworn that she felt it move. She told herself that she was imagining things, though after seeing the talking portrait, she wasn't nearly as sure of herself as before.

"In through here," McGonagall said, opening two large double doors and ushering them into a giant hall with four long tables that were decorated in red, green, blue and yellow, each featuring a different animal's outline. A slightly shorter table sat perpendicular to these four tables at the far end of the large room and when Clara looked up, she could see blue sky dotted with tiny fluffy clouds above her where the ceiling should have been, though she knew that they were indoors, so this should be impossible.

The Headmistress moved toward the far end of the room behind the far table and pulled on a golden cord, which pulled back a pair of purple velvet curtains that had been placed like a backdrop against the wall.

"See anyone familiar?" The Headmistress said softly, her voice echoing in the massive room.

Clara looked up and her hands flew to her mouth.

A massive painting hung against the wall with a glowing bronze plaque above it.

The plaque read "_To honor the heroes who made the ultimate sacrifice to Vanquish the darkness once and for all."_

A smaller plaque with a date and the words "_Second Wizarding Wa_r" was placed beneath it along with a list of names.

The painting was set inside of a massive, plush room filled with sofas and tables and plenty of food and drink. It looked as though a feast was laid out for the heroes inside, who were reveling within as though they were on a television show within the black walnut frame.

"Many died at the Battle at Hogwarts," the Headmistress said sadly, "Such a tragic loss of life for so many."

But the people in the painting were smiling and waving and greeting the Headmistress.

"Are they...?" Clara started, touching the canvas lightly.

"No...it's beautiful magic, but these are only sophisticated shadows based on those who knew them," McGonagall replied, looking over her glasses at the three Americans, "Is there anyone in this frame who appears...familiar?"

Three sets of eyes scanned the expansive canvas. Clara saw a man with a scarred face kissing a woman with pink hair as though they'd just been married. There were a couple of girls playing a game of cards, some of which kept exploding. And a short boy with an old style flash camera kept snapping pictures excitedly. Ryan pointed to a beautiful snowy owl that sat on an ornamental perch, while Rick snickered as he called attention to a man with a horribly scarred face and an eyeball that whizzed around and around in its socket as though it were a top.

"Not re-oh," Clara's heart nearly stopped when she saw the shock of bright red hair and the impish expression on the young man at the end of the table as he shot peas through a straw and hit the woman with pink hair right in the ear, causing her to shriek, her hair turning a bright shade of orange as she shook her fist in warning.

"It's him..." She said softly, unsure as to whether she was saying it to anyone in particular or simply trying to process the thought herself.

"Who is he? A long lost relative?" Rick said, rolling his eyes.

"That's Dad, isn't it?" Ryan said softly, placing his hand on his mother's wrist.

"I never knew..." Clara said, her eyes filling with tears, "I could never find him...and I just assumed..."

"...That he abandoned you?" The Headmistress sniffed, "Preposterous! Fred Weasley was many things- a constant source of gray hairs in my case- but he was not dishonorable. Had he known...had he made it through the War..."

"I don't remember reading about any war," Clara said, sniffing louder than she would have liked, "What happened?"

"Oh, merely a crazy megalomaniac hellbent on world domination," McGonagall said, peering over her glasses with a tiny smirk.

"Oh!" Clara found herself letting out a near bark of a laugh, "Well, if that's _all_!"

The boys looked confused as the two women broke out into snickers that quickly dissipated due to the seriousness of the matter.

"Fred, do quit tormenting the others and come over here!" The Headmistress said with authority in her voice.

The red haired young man rolled his eyes in an alarmingly similar manner to Rick's favorite expression and approached them until it seemed that he was standing on the other side of a looking glass.

"Do you...remember me?" Clara said, the memories of that night all those years before breaking the surface and filling her with the longing, exhilaration and sadness that she'd carried with her for nearly twelve years. His face was so young, now, while her own eyes were lined with crow's feet and a troublesome groove had worn its way between her eyebrows.

He was frozen in time and all she could do was go forward.

"Can't say I've seen you around," Fred said with a roguish grin and Clara's heart dropped to the floor.

"I..I see," she said, staring so intently at the floor that her eyes burned.

"Aww, don't be like that, love," he said kindly, "I just meant that round these parts, most of the people are knee height at best."

He laughed in that easy way that had melted her heart all those years ago, and her chest ached with sadness.

"Of course I remember you, Clara," he said, "Sorry about the disappearing act, but I couldn't consider myself a proper Gryffindor if I didn't go to help those in distress. But...why are you at Hogwarts? I had you pegged for a muggle and besides, you're far too old to start out as a student and you're not wearing teaching robes so you're obviously not a professor."

"I...I've never referred to myself as a muggle, but I suppose that's what I am since I don't have the same sort of abilities that you do," she replied, "But...well...it seems you left me with a bit _more_ than some happy memories."

"What do you mean? I'm just a magical painting, I don't-_oh_," Fred's painted face went silent with shock as he finally noticed the two identical boys standing behind their mother.

Clara pressed her hand lightly against the fabric of the painting and Fred did the same, as though all that separated them was a pane of glass.

"_I'm_ _sorry_," he said softly, his eyes filling with tears, "I never knew."

"I was mad at you for such a long time," she said softly, "I thought that you did it on purpose, but then I realized that a lot of the anger I was feeling was actually directed at myself, for being tricked, for allowing myself to believe that anyone would...well, that's all water under the bridge now."

"Clara, look at me," Fred said, "What I said to you that night...I wasn't just spouting nonsense to get into your knickers."

McGonagall coughed loudly at this, and Clara turned, her face going red as she remembered that they weren't alone. Thankfully, the rest of the painting had mysteriously emptied of its occupants.

"If you don't mind," the Headmistress said nonchalantly, "I could take your sons on a tour of the facilities while you talk a bit longer."

"That would be perfect, thank you," Clara said, wiping a bit of moisture from one of her eyes.

"Mom, are you going to be ok?" Ryan asked, touching her hand.

"Yes, sweetheart, I just need to talk a bit longer to...er...your father," Clara said awkwardly.

The word felt strange in her mouth, but it was the best way to describe him, so she left it at that.

The two boys walked out of the room behind the Headmistress, but it was Rick not Ryan who turned back and looked at the picture with narrowed eyes.

"I think he likes me," Fred quipped as the door shut behind the others.

"Well he should," Clara replied, "Because he's just like you. A troublemaker too."

Fred grinned at this.

"So," he said, "Twins, eh?"

"You mentioned that you had a twin too," Clara said, looking around the painting, "Is he...there with you?"

"He has a portrait of me that I can visit at his house, but no, he's very much alive…" Fred replied thoughtfully, his face breaking out into a grin, "Oh! This is great news! Mum and Dad will be so excited! Not to mention George and all the rest!"

"What?"

"You've got to visit the Burrow, ok? Please? Do this for me and I'll be the happiest painted wizard in the world!" he replied giddily.

"A burrow? Why?" Clara replied skeptically.

"No, not _a_ burrow! _The_ Burrow! It's what my parents called their ancestral home. It's actually a proper house, though, not underground like the name implies," Fred said, his eyes sparkling as he did a cartwheel down the side of the painting.

"How do I get there?" Clara asked, intrigued that she suddenly had gone from no support or family to having gained a mysterious set of relations that lived in a house called _The Burrow_ of all things.

"Just ask Minerva," Fred said, his grin growing wide with excitement, "Oh, this is the best day since I was first painted! Clara, I'm _so_ excited now. You have no idea. You've made me a very happy man...erm...painting, you know. Oh, just one more thing."

"Yes?" Clara asked, suddenly feeling somewhat foolish that she was still talking to a painting.

"Press your cheek against the canvas, right here, ok?"

"Um, ok," she replied, somewhat skeptically, but she did as he asked.

"It's not the real thing, but it'll have to do," he said, and she could feel a warm resonance against the canvas almost like the pulse of lips pressed against her skin.

_He kissed me!_

"I wasn't lying when I told you that sometimes _you just know_," Fred said seriously, "The problem is that sometimes, reality has its way of taking the things you love and putting them where you'll never see them again. To be honest, I think I got the easy side of the bargain when I died. But George...he's never been the same. Clara, it would be so good for him to see you and...our...sons...gosh, that sounds so strange to say- I'd never really thought about having a family of my own as long as I had George...but...it feels _good_ to say. So thank you, Clara. For coming here, for showing me."

"You're welcome," Clara said softly, suddenly feeling a bit nervous, "So...how would you like to hear about what your sons have been up to these past eleven years?"

"There is nothing I would like more in the world," Fred said, his eyes glittering with interest.

Clara began to tell him everything, and Fred listened raptly to each detail as though hanging on her every word. And for the second time in more than a decade, Clara felt like they were the only two people in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Diagon Alley**

The echoing knock on the great doors signalled the return of the Headmistress with the two boys. Clara nearly chuckled at the goggle-eyed looks on her sons' faces.

"I suppose that's a definite 'yes,' then about going to school here?" Clara asked, her hands on her hips as she smirked.

"If they didn't decide to go to Hogwarts, I can promise you that the American Magical Association will be contacting you for compulsory magical education," Minerva said, peering over her glasses, "Your country's magical governing system leaves a lot to be desired considering that you supposedly live in the land of the free."

"Why _don't_ you force children with magical abilities to go to magical school?" Clara asked incredulously, "That seems like a bad idea. What if their magical abilities go out of control or they seriously hurt themselves or others?"

"The truth is," Minerva said, pausing as though she wasn't sure if she should say it or not "Magic is like any other innate talent. If you do not use it when it first begins to manifest strongly- which is usually around eleven years of age, as it seems to be tied to the onset of puberty for some reason, it eventually just fades away. Magical folks will always have magic, even if they never use it, but it will be significantly weaker, like a muscle that has atrophied. Children who live in the Muggle world have a unique choice- they can decide to join this new world, or they can choose the one they've known their whole lives. It seems like such a monumental choice to make at such a young age, I know, but it is rarely ever made incorrectly."

"Only if we can visit Mom and send her letters," Ryan said fiercely, "You said that we'd be living here for most of the year except for holidays and summertime."

"Yeah!" Rick chimed in, "After all, we're nearly a world away, which is a lot different than most of the students."

"That can be arranged," the Headmistress said primly, "After all, the cost of Portkeys has significantly dropped ever since the wizarding economy has stabilized, and considering that your sons are the children of a known war hero, we would be happy to make accommodations for you."

"Clara!" Fred's image shouted suddenly, causing everyone to jump, "If you don't mind, why don't you have Minerva take you to Diagon Alley! You can see my brother and he will be sure to give you sufficient Galleons for the children to spend on their school supplies. I'll go ahead and let him know you're on your way."

With that, he nearly clicked his heels together with joy and took off running, disappearing as he exited out the side of the portrait.

"Wait!" Clara shouted, but it was too late.

She turned to her sons, who both wore matching expressions of barely contained excitement.

"Is this what you both truly want?" she asked, placing one hand each on their opposite shoulders.

They nodded.

"Ok, then," Clara said, her voice quivering just a little. When exactly had her boys become these independently thinking little people?

"You were our only applicant from the States," Minerva said kindly, as Clara looked up in askance, "So I made certain to leave my afternoon open. I think that visiting Diagon Alley is a splendid idea, as your sons can get the majority of their shopping done for school today."

"Yes, but how-"

"-Will we get there?" Minerva replied with a wink, "Well, that's not a problem. We'll use the Floo Network from my office. You're in for a treat as long as you can speak clearly."

* * *

Coughing and sputtering, Clara shot out of the fireplace in a burst of green flame.

"Let me help you up, Miss," said a strangely familiar voice.

Clara wiped the soot out of her eyes and looked up.

"_Tom_?" she asked incredulously, "What are you doing here?"

"This is my pub, so I ought to be here," he replied gruffly, his eyes widening as he saw her jeans and sweater, "Blimey, a Muggle come through our Floo network? What the bloody hell is going on-"

The fireplace lit up brightly and Minerva stepped through holding the hands of the two boys.

"I trust that there isn't a problem?" she said, looking somewhat fierce as she stepped from the flames.

"N-no, it's just...er...what's with these-"

"These are _Fred Weasley's children_," Minerva said firmly, "And as such, they have decided to attend their father's school."

Tom went pale and closed his mouth tightly and Clara thought it was quite a good thing that the Headmistress was obviously so talented at discipline that even adults quaked under her gaze.

She'd need all of that ferocity when dealing with the combined pranking prowess of Rick and Ryan, after all.

"This is where….where I met Fred," Clara said, turning red despite herself.

She was very thankful that she was still a bit covered in soot, and hoped that it was a lot less noticeable.

"We just need to go out this way," Minerva said, steering them out a side door and leaving a very silent and shocked Tom standing behind them.

They went through the magical brick wall (which simultaneously made Clara gasp and feel stupid for continuing to be amazed), and out into the bustling street, which seemed to be brimming with activity.

"You'll want to stay close to me," Minerva called out, "Or we might get separated!"

Clara linked arms with Ryan, who held tightly onto the side of the Headmistress's robes. She noticed that Minerva was holding Rick around the wrist with her free hand, which made a lot of sense. The look on his face betrayed the desire he had to slip away unnoticed to explore by himself.

"Ah, here we are," she said, as they turned a corner.

Stretched before them was the largest, most purple shop that Clara had ever seen. The large, cursive golden letters scrolled across the top of the storefront, which had a colored lights display and rainbow clouds of smoke pouring out of a massive wand set into the roof of the shop, creating beautiful animals that moved as though alive before they dissipated into the air.

"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," read Rick, as he looked in through the large picture windows, "It's a prank shop, isn't it?"

"Oh my lord," Clara groaned, "Fred didn't tell me what sort of business he owned, but now that I know, I'm not even surprised."

She thought that she heard Minerva stifling a snicker, but when she turned, the older woman was as impassive as ever.

"I have some things to pick up at Flourish &amp; Blotts," the Headmistress said with a small smile, "I'll be back to collect you in about twenty minutes."

"Aww, you're not coming in?" Ryan protested.

"Not after the time they let a bunch of Rip Roaring Rippers loose in the store," Minerva said, turning up her nose in an attempt to hide her chagrin at the indignity of the mental image, "They said it was _all in good fun_! Hmph! Most people don't think it is _fun_ to have their rear ends chased by sharp wind-up walking teeth!"

Rick snorted with laughter, covering his mouth with his hand to try and hide it.

"Thank you for everything, Headmistress," Clara said, holding out her hand to shake, "We really, truly appreciate all that you've done for us."

"It's nothing, my dear," came the reply, as her hand was firmly grasped in a formal handshake, "And it's _Minerva_, please."

"Then...thank you, Minerva."

The older woman turned with a flourish of robes and disappeared around the corner back the way they'd come, and the three Americans turned to look back at the front doors to the shop.

"Mom, are you ok?" Ryan said softly, looking up at his mother's unsure expression.

"No, I can do this!" Clara replied, more to herself than anyone else.

She pulled open the door and was immediately accosted with the sound of an extremely loud burst of flatulence.

In a moment, Rick and Ryan were practically rolling on the floor laughing while Clara blushed deeply.

"It wasn't me!" she insisted, even though she knew that they didn't seriously believe that the comical noise had come from her.

"Welcome!" a voice called from behind a curtain near the back, "We just opened, so if you'll excuse my rudeness, please enjoy the rudeness over by the register. All Puking Pastilles are 50% off through noon, just in case you're hoping to feign illness for that unpleasant lunch you're planning on having with your mother-in-law!"

"Um...thanks?" Ryan said, approaching the counter and looking skeptically at the boxes and the images of cartoonishly puking wizards.

"Ah, so you've brought your children, then? Well, look no further than our best-selling Whizzy Fizzies!" the voice grew closer and a man with flaming red hair burst through the curtain carrying a box, "Guaranteed to-"

But none of them would hear what they were guaranteed to do, for the man had gone a sickly shade of white as he saw Rick and Ryan looking up at him and dropped the box he'd been holding with a horrible crash.

"It...no..._can't be_…" he said, staring at the two children as though he was face to face with a ghost.

The man before them was somewhat stocky and had gained a bit of pudge around his middle, as well as a somewhat obnoxious looking handlebar moustache, but the light lines on his forehead and around his eyes did not take away from the fact that he looked just like Clara imagined Fred would have looked had he lived long enough to develop them.

No. He didn't look just like Fred. He looked _exactly_ like Fred.

"George?" she asked, putting her hand up somewhat absentmindedly as though offering it to shake.

He simply gaped at her.

A rustling noise from behind the curtain made everyone turn and look back. A tall, thin man who was obviously a bit younger than George, (but from the flaming red hair was obviously related), pulled one corner of the curtain and stepped in with a somewhat bewildered look on his blue eyes.

"I thought I heard a loud noise- _blimey_!" he too went a bit pale as he saw the two boys, who'd gone back to looking through the various items near the front of the store with the casual manner of children who were quite convinced that the adults were overreacting again.

"We just got our letters in the mail, and then we went through the Door...Key thing…" Clara said far too brightly, cursing herself for being prone to babble in awkward situations, "And then I talked to Minerva, and the boys...well, we saw the painting...and then we came here."

"You're American," the tall man said in a tone of voice as though she also had two heads.

"Yes?" Clara replied, "My name is Clara Summers."

"Well, you apparently already know my brother George over there," the tall man said, setting his hands on the counter and leaning forward with an interested glint in his eyes, "I'm Ron. Ron Weasley. Are...they….?"

"I...I was visiting during winter break in my last year of college and I met Fred one night and...well…" she grinned sheepishly.

"_Blimey_," Ron said, his voice full of awe before he broke into a huge grin, "George, this is _huge_! Mum needs to know! Hell, _everyone_ needs to know! I'll send the Patronuses and get everyone sorted out."

The other man nodded slightly, his face still frozen with shock as Ron ran out through the front door and pulled a stick-like object from his robes.

Clara watched as something silver flew from the tip of Ron's wand, and for a moment, she thought she saw it coalesce into the shape of something with four paws as it shot into the sky.

"Their eyes are different," George said woodenly, "But everything else...it's like looking back in time, before...before he..."

"I don't understand," Clara said softly, "Fred's painting told me that he was going ahead to tell you we were on our way. I'm sorry that we've given you such a terrible shock."

A strange barking noise issued forth from George's mouth and Clara realized that he was laughing somewhat brokenly.

"Oh, he _would_ tell you that, but Fred was always a big fan of the shocking surprise gag," George managed, and she could see the tears tracing down the corners of his eyes, darkening the skin as they traveled down his jawline and dripped onto his robes.

"Well, since it's obvious that he hasn't talked to you at all, I suppose I should do my best to fill you in," Clara replied, feeling as though she was treading awkwardly all over an important relationship.

"Please, come up the stairs and take a seat," George said, gesturing to a staircase near the right wall of the shop, "We're opening a Silly Sweet Shoppe section in a few weeks. Maybe you can attend?"

"Boys, be sure to behave!" Clara called in her best motherly voice, and she could see George smirk a little bit, as though he was remembering his own mother saying the exact same thing.

"It should be fine," he said, wiping a final stray tear with one hand, "We'll be able to see them from the balcony."

They walked up the stairs together in silence, and Clara tried to order everything she needed to tell Fred's twin about the boys and their needs. And, for what felt like the thousandth time, she wondered what it would have been like if Fred had lived, if he'd been there for the birth of his sons and the days and years thereafter. And then she had to abruptly force herself to stop thinking about it, because she didn't want to cry in front of everyone yet again.

If only for the boys, she needed to be strong.

They sat at a table near the balcony so that Clara could keep an eye on the boys below.

"Don't worry, for them, everything is free," George said with a sad smile.

"That's _not_ what I'm worrying about," Clara replied cooly, and George smiled a bit less sadly at that.

"So then," he said, "What did you want to speak to me about?"

"Well," Clara said, suddenly feeling shy, "It's about...the boys. I think we've pretty much decided that they're attending the school in the fall and-"

"They're going to _Hogwarts_?!" George nearly jumped out of his chair with excitement, "Oh, that's great news! Simply _marvelous_!"

"Well...it's about these Gallons things…" Clara said nervously. She hated talking about money, but she had no idea how wizarding money worked.

"Oh! You must mean Galleons!" George chuckled, "Well, I imagine you probably are still pretty confused, being a Muggle and an American Muggle at that! That will not be a problem at all. Any and all needs for you and your sons will be covered. No questions asked. Well...unless you're looking to visit the Goblin Casino over on the other side of the Alley, because I've got some enemies there."

"_Goblins_?" Clara replied uncertainly. She was honestly unsure as to whether or not he was actually joking.

"Let's not worry about that for now," George replied, waving his hand, "What I want to know is how you met my brother. And exactly how long you two, well, how long it took to get to...this."

Clara blushed at the insinuation, but did her best to tell George the sordid story. It was only when she got to the part with the glowing fox that he interrupted her briefly and told her that was a way he'd sent messages to his brother during the war. Somehow that seemed to legitimize her story in a way that simply seeing her sons hadn't done, and he talked with earnest about his brother when she asked him, telling her all manner of things that she suspected he probably had not even shared with his other siblings.

They were interrupted by a loud bang as the door flew open and a woman's voice rang out loudly.

"WHERE ARE THEY?!" she shouted, "I MUST SEE THEM!"

Clara rushed to the balcony and looked down to see an older woman with shockingly red hair (though a number of gray strands ran through at her temples) standing in the open doorway to the shop. Her sons had ducked down behind two large barrels of Toadwart Tasties and had matching expressions of alarm on their faces.

"Who is _that_?" she dared to ask George.

"Oh, just my mother," he replied, rolling his eyes, "She has a thing for loud, theatrical entrances, you see. It's a hereditary affliction."

"I can see that," she said, hiding her laugh behind one hand.

The woman seemed to have heard them and looked up, pointing a well-manicured finger at them.

"YOU!" she said loudly, "Are _you_ their mother?!"

"Um….yes?" Clara said, leaning backwards from the sound of the woman's booming voice.

The woman approached the stairs at a disturbingly fast pace and Clara found herself wondering what she should call this person. Mother in law? Lady? Mrs...W? She cursed inwardly. What a time to forget Fred's surname!

And then the woman was at the top of the stairs, her large chest heaving as she recovered from the quick ascent. Clara could see where Fred had gotten his interest in top-heavy women.

In a moment, the woman had closed the gap between the two of them and the look on her face was so fierce that Clara was terrified that she was about to be slapped or even punched but then….the woman had wrapped her arms around Clara in such a fierce hug that the air was crushed from her lungs and she could feel her eyes practically popping out of her skull.

And Clara was left feeling utterly awkward as this woman, whose name she didn't even know, began sobbing loudly into her shoulder.

"Merlin preserve us!" she blubbered loudly, "It's a _miracle_!"

"Mum, please stop or you're going to drown the poor woman before she gets a word in edgewise," George said, unimpressed.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," the woman sniffed, drawing back and wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her cloak, "I'm Molly Weasley, I am Fred's mother."

"I'm Clara. Clara Summers," Clara replied, "And, um, I'm _their_ mother."

She pointed and Molly turned around to see the two boys peeking over the railing of the stairway on the upper floor landing.

"That's Rick, short for Frederick, and that's Ryan," she said, and the two boys stood up straighter as they were indicated.

"It is lovely to meet all of you!" Molly said, clasping her hands together, "I know we've only just met, but I hope to see more of you now that we know about you!"

"Who-OW!-are you?" Rick said, as Ryan elbowed him in the ribs.

"She's obviously our paternal grandmother," Ryan said smugly, "I'm correct, right?"

"Indeed you are!" she replied with a huge grin as she wiped a tear from her cheek, "They're smart boys, Clara. Just like Fred and George were when they were little. Do they give you trouble?"

"You mean, do they pull pranks like dying the class rabbit a bright shade of fuschia, yet somehow escaping detention?" Clara asked.

George's face lit up at that.

"No kidding?" he asked eagerly as the boys looked strangely proud of themselves.

"Oh you! Don't you encourage them!" Molly scolded, but her expression wasn't angry, "I'm sorry, I can't even bring myself to scowl now that I know...about all of you."

The door banged open again and a man with thinning red hair and a more sensible moustache rushed inside.

"Molly, I was just talking with Melvin about-oh!" he said as he saw everyone standing up on the second floor landing, "Did I miss anything?"

"Only meeting your grandsons, Arthur Weasley!" Molly said, swooping down the stairs with one of the two boys under each arm and Clara and George following reluctantly behind, "Meet Ryan and Rick, come from America to attend Hogwarts in the fall!"

"Good to meet you both!" Arthur said affably, "Ron's patronus mentioned you were planning on sticking around and...good lord, _those clothes_, were you raised _muggle_? In _America_? I have so much to ask you...that is, if you don't mind."

"_Oh no you don't_!" Molly chided, "I'm not going to let you hog them with silly questions about rubber ducks and aeroplanes!"

Arthur's face fell a little and he frowned, "I'll have you know that I learnt about those things ages ago! But I wouldn't mind learning about this world wide web thing that everyone's been going on about. Does it involve very large spiders or do you use some sort of synthetic spider silk for your webs?"

Rick snorted and got another elbow to the ribs from his brother.

Just then, the door banged open and a flood of red-haired people, people who were obviously their spouses and children of a variety of different ages began to stream through the doors.

"What's all this about, Fred?" a woman with impressively bushy brown hair said excitedly.

"Calm down, everyone! If you will humor me, I can explain!" a familiar voice said, and everyone turned to see George step out from behind the curtain with a painting in his arms.

"Fred!" Clara said, somewhat embarrassed at how happy she sounded to see a mere shadow of the man who was long dead.

"C'mon everyone! Give the painting some silence!" a man with dark, messy (yet somehow undeniably perfect) hair and rounded glasses shouted loudly.

"Hear hear!" shouted Ron, as the murmurs died down.

"I'd like to tell you all that this was the greatest prank I've ever pulled off, well, excepting perhaps the magical swamp we put up to give ol' Umbridge a conniption in our Sixth year. Judging from your grins, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny- yes, I saw you hiding back there all ready to pop any day, _Ginevra_!-I can tell that it was a roaring success."

George snorted. "_Obviously_!"

"I heard from Neville that the swamp sometimes flares up when Ministry officials visit," Hermione said with a grin.

"_Wicked_," George and Fred's portraits said simultaneously.

"ANYWAY," Fred said loudly, "So while I'd love to claim that I planned this all along, the truth is, I was just as surprised when I met them all this morning. This is Clara. She has done the hardest thing I can imagine anyone has ever had to do- raise two twin boys on her own who are also directly related to _me_."

At this, there were a number of snorts and titters from the assembled group. Clara felt her face go red, but a part of her felt utterly elated. After almost twelve years without any support beyond a handful of friends, she suddenly had this…._family._

It was overwhelming.

"So I'd like to formally introduce my...well..ok, to be fair, the _real_ Fred's, who couldn't be here today because I'm _far_ more photogenic for obvious reasons, sons, Ryan and Rick Summers," Fred held out a hand and gestured to the two boys, who were still being held in a one-armed hug by their grandmother.

A great round of applause filled the room and people were hooting and hollering so loudly that the noise was nearly deafening. Clara found herself surrounded by new faces all talking at once and she began to feel a bit light-headed at all of the chatter. She remembered shaking a lot of hands and hearing (and immediately forgetting) at least twenty different names.

By the time everything had calmed down and people left (though not after a number of invitations to future breakfasts, teas, lunches and dinners), Clara finally noticed Minerva standing outside the picture window waving primly to get her attention.

"I haven't forgotten, you know," George said, coming up behind her and placing a large silk drawstring bag in her hand.

It was heavy, and Clara had an idea of what was inside.

"Surely this is far too much!" she gasped as she looked inside. Both Rick and Ryan's eyes went just as wide as they looked at the amount of golden coins within.

"Clara, you've given me the next best thing to seeing Fred, the _real_ Fred, alive once more," George said quietly as the boys took one look at the sadness on their uncle's face and made themselves scarce.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she replied uncertainly.

"Your sons remind me so much of Fred and me," George said, his mouth twisting up in a ghost of a wicked grin that now looked more tired than anything, "He was always the sentimental one, though you'd never know it to look at him. Seeing them together just makes me ache, but in a good way, you know? Even after all of these years running a successful business, there will always be a hole in my heart where my brother used to be. He was my other half in a way that even my beloved wife Angelina, could never be."

"I'm so sorry that you lost him," Clara said, placing a hand on his shoulder softly, "I knew him for only one night and...well, as Fred himself said, '_sometimes you just know_.'"

George made a small noise in the back of his throat, and for a moment, Clara was afraid that he was about to start sobbing. But when he looked up at her, he was smiling.

"See?" he said, "I told you. Total sentimental fool if ever I saw one."

The door opened gingerly, and a tiny sound like firecrackers popping emanated from the enchanted door.

"I hate to be a bother," Minerva said through a crack in the door, "But Ollivanders will be closing in about half an hour, and it can take some time for the wand to choose the wielder. Since you have two, I figured it might be best to be on our way with haste."

"Still adhering to your boycott of our esteemed shop," George said loudly, his smirk widening.

"Hmph!" Minerva replied with an icy expression, "One can only take so many affronts to one's dignity before realizing that certain places are best left untraveled."

"Clara," George said suddenly, and as she turned to look at him he placed a hand on her shoulder, "Please, you are always welcome here or at the Burrow. My family and I live in the space above the shop, and there are extra rooms if you ever need to stay. And my Mum, well, she has plenty of extra space to spare ever since her children have moved out. Of course, there are always grandchildren spending the night, so it can be a pretty hectic place."

"Hectic can be good," Clara replied with a smile, "I was getting tired of the silence anyway. Usually means that someone's up to no good."

George chuckled, "You're going to get along famously with Mum. I can tell that already!"

"Come along, boys! You do want to get your wands today, don't you?" Minerva was calling to the boys, who had filled their pockets with a number of things that Clara was not looking forward to discovering first hand.

She said her goodbyes to George and Ron, who'd finished restocking products in the back and joined them in the front of the shop.

"I'm really, really glad that you decided to come here," George said as Clara stepped out the door, "It's like the feeling I used to get on Christmas morning. I just...I have a feeling I can't quite convey in words...and...maybe..."

He pulled out his wand and swished it around in a wide arc, pointing it at the sky through the open door.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he said in a rich, clear tone that was just a little more gruff and guttural than Fred's smooth voice, but was so achingly similar that for a moment, she almost forgot that Fred was well and truly gone forever.

A thick, silver mist erupted from the tip of the wand, and the two boys stared with excitement as it poured and swirled and coalesced together into the form of a gorgeous silver fox that stood up on its haunches, sniffing the air for a moment before it took off running with its head pointed ever skyward. All who watched it were filled with an ethereal joy beyond words.

And even though there was still so much to plan for and to learn about the Wizarding World and her new, chaotic family, and Clara knew that it was far from over, a great weight seemed to have been lifted from everyone's shoulders as they watched the tiny vulpine form gambol in the sky until it had disappeared above the clouds.

**The End**

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for reading my most recent story! I just wanted to say that I read and appreciate all of your reviews! Fred and George are a bit hard to write. It's quite difficult to strike a balance between their humor and their ability to really tell it like it is (even if it's a bit harsh).


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